


Modern Art

by wheel_pen



Series: Lucy [12]
Category: Smallville, The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, President Lex Luthor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex has been neglecting Lucy lately, but she still wants to help him when the opportunity arises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modern Art

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Lucy, my original character, is Clark’s cousin on the Kent side. Although human she may have some strange psychic powers and definitely has some issues in her past. She’s having a tough time with her mom and goes to live with Jonathan and Martha for a while. She and Lex form a relationship.
> 
> 2\. In my world, Lex eventually becomes President. And his staff is from The West Wing. 
> 
> 3\. I started writing this series during the third season of Smallville, so it diverges from canon then or earlier.
> 
> 4\. Underage warning: This story may contain human or human-like teenagers, in high school, in sexual situations.
> 
> 5\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“Not that my readers are interested in big business, Lex,” Reardon was saying, “but you and Veronica there could make a nice picture for the front page.” Lex smiled thinly and sipped his apple-green martini. It tasted too bitter. “’Sexy International Lovebirds in Billion-Dollar Merger,’” the editor of the _Inquisitor_ mused.

“I’m glad you think I’m sexy, Jim,” Lex deadpanned, setting the drink aside, “but there’s no merger yet.”

“Oh, come on, Lex, don’t bother being coy,” Reardon insisted. “You and Miss Veronica Howard”—he glanced a few feet away at the slender brunette in her little black dress, holding her ruby-red drink like an artfully placed accessory and bantering with another guest—“wouldn’t show up to this little shin-dig together if you weren’t concocting some sort of… business arrangement. I mean, I know you don’t like modern art, Lex.”

The younger man glanced at the abstract paintings positioned around the hotel suite. “The actual _art_ I can do without,” he admitted quietly, hoping that the other guests were too busy fawning over the splashes of color and geometric shapes to hear him, “but anyone who can convince people to drop fifty grand on a glorified drop cloth is worthy of _my_ admiration. And no,” he added quickly, “you’d better not quote me on that.”

Reardon smirked a bit. “But seriously, Lex, I’ve heard that Veronica has been holed up with you in that Gothic monstrosity in Cowtown—“

“Smallville,” Lex corrected, with some irritation.

“Smallville,” Reardon repeated derisively, “for weeks now, so either the two of you have been hammering out the details for the acquisition of Essex Automotives by LuthorCorp, or…” He trailed off leadingly.

Lex gave the newspaperman a cold smile. Normally he avoided the press, especially those connected with Metropolis’s foremost tabloid, but at this “exclusive” art showing, Reardon was easily the least obnoxious person in the room. And that included his date, who for some reason had begun irritating Lex more and more lately. She did look beautiful tonight in her designer dress and expensive jewelry straight out of the Howard family vaults, her hair and make-up sculpted by true professionals… But every time he heard her silvery laughter he cringed a little inside, and the thought of finding something to talk to her about that didn’t involve spreadsheets or tax write-offs was somehow distasteful.

“Jim, what can I tell you,” Lex replied easily. “Nothing’s been signed, no agreements made, no contracts drawn up.”

“But you’re _arranging_ them,” Reardon persisted. “I do have one or two sources of my own, you know, Lex.”

“Really?” he responded dryly. “Just one or two?”

“And those sources are absolutely convinced that…”

The editor trailed off as it became obvious that the attention of the room was being drawn towards the front, to one particular person—one who was moving in their direction, one who clearly did not have an invitation. Her jeans and yellow sweater were sopping wet, her reddish hair was tangled down her back, and she left damp sneaker prints on the plush carpeting as she pushed determinedly through the crowd. Reardon knew at once who she was, and he couldn’t believe his luck. Circulation just went up 10%.

Lex’s jaw was nearly on the floor. “Lucy?” he breathed as she approached him, drawing the eyes of everyone at the gathering. “What are you—“

He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before she grabbed the collar of his silk jacket and pulled him into a kiss, one that _almost_ made him forget where he was—and who he was with. He nearly had his hands at her waist when he felt her pressing something into his palm—and then suddenly she was jerked away and facing a _very_ irate automotive executive. “You little b---h,” Veronica snarled. “I thought we’d gotten rid of you for _good_.”

Lex’s temper flared unexpectedly. “Veronica—“

“You’ll have to work a little harder to get rid of _me_ ,” Lucy replied, her voice quiet but determined.

“How dare you,” the brunette huffed, raising a perfectly manicured hand menacingly.

Lex caught her wrist before the blow was delivered, but Lucy was quick with her own defense and landed a solid punch to the older woman’s powdered jawline. As though it were happening to someone else, Lex watched his own hand release Veronica’s arm, allowing her to tumble backwards amid gasps of horror from the watching crowd. Almost in slow motion she tripped over an ottoman and crashed, rear-end first, through a six-foot canvas. From the other side of the room, the artist shrieked.

“Thank you, Lord,” breathed Reardon gratefully. Circulation just went up 25%.

Lex’s reflexes were so slow, he felt like he was drunk. Before he had gotten his fill of Veronica sprawled ungracefully in the middle of a green and purple paint swirl, Lucy turned her back on him and started running. Suddenly he remembered she had slipped him something, and hurriedly he unfolded the pieces of paper. Now his mind seemed to kick into high gear, catching up for the time it had lost, and within seconds Lex had skimmed the pages and realized what they meant. “Lucy!” he called, starting after her.

“ _’Billionaire Love Triangle Assault at Art Show_ ,’” Reardon murmured excitedly, fumbling as he dug out his cell phone. “’Teenage mistress of Lex Luthor attacks rival.’ Amanda,” he said urgently to his sleepy chief assistant on the phone, “get everyone back in. I have tomorrow’s headline!... No, _scratch_ that,” he ordered in irritation. “Tomorrow’s headline is—“

Suddenly the star of his headline reappeared in his view. “Print this instead,” Lex told him, slapping the crumpled pages into his hand and giving Reardon a look that sent chills down the older man’s spine. Circulation might only go up 15%... but Reardon would still have a job in the morning. And a house and a wife. Then Lex was gone again.

 

“Are you warm enough?” Clark asked with concern, turning the heat up in the car. The temperature didn’t bother him either way, of course, but his cousin was soaked and shivering in the seat next to him.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be warm,” Lucy responded grimly, her teeth chattering.

“I think there’s a blanket in the trunk—“

She shook her head. “No, that’s okay. I just want to get home.”

They were quiet for a few minutes as Clark concentrated on navigating through the rainy night. “You gave him the report, didn’t you,” he finally said. It wasn’t a question. One glance at his cousin’s face told him the answer. “Why?”

Lucy opened her mouth to reply, thought about it, then sighed. “I had to,” was all she could say.

“But Lucy, we decided, people have to be warned—“

“They _will_ be,” she snapped, curling up in the car seat. “Chloe’s going to call the _Daily Planet_ on Monday, isn’t she? I just—I wanted Lex to know. Before. So he doesn’t make any deals.”

Clark took a deep breath. “Look, Lucy, you know Lex and I are friends, but after the way he’s treated you—I mean, with Veronica—why would you want to help him?”

“His career is so important to him, Clark,” Lucy tried to explain. She was exhausted for some reason, and the heat was making her even more drowsy. “It’s not even like a career, it’s like—inheriting a throne. I mean, you’ve met his dad.” Clark nodded, his expression indicating that he didn’t especially enjoy the memory. “If Lex comes out ahead on this deal…” She could barely keep her eyes open.

“But,” Clark began carefully, “if Lex made this deal right, does he really think his dad is going to love him…more?” He couldn’t help but tack the “more” on to the end.

“I think he’s given up on love,” Lucy mumbled, head drooping. A moment later she was asleep.

 

“Lucy, wake up, we’re almost home,” Clark said, gently poking his cousin’s shoulder two hours later as he pulled into the dirt lane.

She shook herself awake and winced at the crick in her neck. Then she winced at something else. “The lights are on,” she pointed out with a defeated sigh.

Clark instinctively slowed the car, wondering what on earth they were going to tell his parents to explain their arrival home at one am. Well, the truth, obviously, but the trick was phrasing it right, so it seemed like an unsupervised trip to Metropolis was somehow the _lesser_ evil.

“And there’s Lex’s car,” Clark noticed in confusion, as they coasted past the silver Mercedes-Benz McLaren with license plate _LEX 1_. “How did he get here before us?”

“I think it’s _possible_ he may have exceeded the posted speed limit once or twice,” Lucy suggested, trying to make herself look at least a _little_ bit less like a drowned rat that had been drying in a warm car for two hours.

As they pulled the car around back, Clark saw Lex sitting on the porch steps—with Mr. and Mrs. Kent, in their nightclothes, standing over him. No one in the group looked very happy. “Do you think Lex woke them up?” Clark asked, dreading the answer.

“Lex Luthor will wake up everyone in the _county_ when he wants something done,” Lucy answered seriously. “I’m surprised there weren’t helicopters tracking us down the highway.”

Clark looked at her quickly. “Well, actually—“ There _had_ been some suspicious lights in the sky above them. “You were asleep,” he explained to Lucy, who was glaring at him. “I thought maybe they were search and rescue.” He had stopped the car, but for some reason neither of them was eager to get out. “I didn’t think they were searching for _us_.”

“Are you going to floor that accelerator and get us out of here?” Lucy asked.

Clark glanced at her, startled. “No.”

She took a deep breath. “Then I guess we shouldn’t just sit in here any longer.”

The instant Lucy opened the car door, Lex was on his feet, and Jonathan and Martha weren’t far behind him. For a moment everyone was talking at once.

“Where on earth have you been? We were worried sick when Lex called and you two weren’t in bed—“

“Just what the h—l is going on around here, son? What are you two running off to Metropolis for in the middle of the night?”

“Dad, we were just trying to—“

“Lucy, are you alright? Are you—“

“You _g-----n b-----d_!” That got everyone’s attention. Lucy’s eyes blazed as she stared Lex down. “ _Now_ you’re concerned about me? _Now_ you want to know if I’m okay?” Lex actually took a couple steps backward as she approached him accusingly. “You’ve been running around for _three weeks_ with that anorexic plastic blow-up doll, and it’s been ‘Lucy wait upstairs,’ ‘Lucy I’ll call you later,’ ‘Lucy go home now,’ and now you’re sitting on the porch _waiting_ for me?” The Kents exchanged dubious glances. Lex was looking more than a little nervous himself. “You’re a _coward_ , Lex Luthor. I didn’t think that was possible but you _caved_. Your daddy called and you _jumped_. You don’t want me around, you tell me that to my face, but don’t you ever just ignore me, like a g‑‑‑‑‑n twelve-year-old!”

They were almost back at the porch by now, the Kents trailing behind hesitantly, and Lucy had worked herself up to tears of fury. “You can’t treat me that way, Lex,” she whispered hoarsely. “You’re the only one—who knows…” She broke off and bit her lip, the tears spilling over her eyes, and Lex looked like he’d just been punched in the gut.

This time when Lucy took a step towards him Lex didn’t back away but instead caught her when her legs turned completely to jello. Carefully he eased her down to kneel in the grass near Martha’s tulip beds. “I trusted you,” she told him simply.

“I know, you’re right,” he breathed, pulling her closer. “I’m sorry.”

Jonathan and Martha looked at each other. That wasn’t exactly what they’d expected to hear from Lex. Although, they had to admit he’d been acting even more strange than usual tonight—waking them up at eleven pm to demand they check on Clark and Lucy, blazing into the yard ninety minutes later more panicked than they’d ever seen him, pacing the porch for half an hour yelling into the phone. Whatever he and Lucy had been up to lately—and it was easy to guess _some_ of the particulars—it certainly seemed to be affecting him more than the average fling.

“You know, you’re really sexy when you’re mad at me,” Lex added with a little smile.

“Okay,” said Jonathan quickly, standing up. Somehow that was more like the Lex he thought he knew. “Now that we’ve located everyone, maybe we could all get to bed now?”

Lucy was giggling, a little bit giddy with fatigue. She let Lex pull her to her feet but stayed close, arms wrapped around him. Clark thought the expression on his friend’s face was a strange combination of happiness and… confusion. Mixed with some suspicion. Which he supposed was actually exactly right for Lex—he usually didn’t seem to really understand the good things he found, and he definitely didn’t trust them.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Lucy? You do have _school_ tomorrow,” he said pointedly.

Lex let her go and smiled at her. “Will you come over after school?” he asked.

Lucy grinned and whispered something in his ear. Lex looked a little pained, then took a deep breath and turned to Clark and his parents. “Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent,” he began awkwardly, “would you… _mind_ if Lucy came over tomorrow after school? She likes to do her homework in the library,” he added quickly. Lucy rolled her eyes and Clark struggled not to smile.

Whatever Jonathan had been about to say when he _first_ opened his mouth remained a mystery, as his wife kicked his ankle sharply with her slipper and gave him a significant look. “Well, we’ll, uh, we’ll have to, uh, discuss that,” he finally managed. “I mean, uh…” He cleared his throat and tried to figure out what he meant. “I mean, we can’t have any _exceptions_. Lucy can’t stay out late on school nights, and uh… her schoolwork better not suffer. And she still has her chores to do.” He nodded, pleased with his rules. They were pretty much the ones they had for Clark, not that Clark had ever had billionaires who thought they owned the world chasing after him. “Oh, and we want to know where she is at all times,” Jonathan added sternly. “No jaunting off to Paris for dinner or anything like that.”

“Really?” Lex seemed disappointed. “Is that negotiable?” Lucy elbowed him. “I mean, of course, absolutely.”

Jonathan glanced at Martha to see if she had anything to add. She smiled at him encouragingly, so he figured he hadn’t done too badly. “Well, alright then,” he decided firmly. “We have to get up early tomorrow. So…”

“So, I should say goodnight, then,” Lex finished reluctantly. “Um… goodnight Lucy.”

Lucy grabbed his collar again and kissed him. “Goodnight,” she told him.

Trying hard to wipe the distinctly un-intimidating grin off his face, Lex headed back to his car. When he paused at Clark, the teenager assured him, “Just a handshake will be fine.”

“You’re enjoying this a little too much,” Lex told him under his breath, shaking his hand. Clark nodded, grinning. “Goodnight, Mr. Kent, Mrs. Kent,” Lex added.

“Goodnight, Lex,” Martha called. Jonathan gave her a look, then shook his head. A moment later Lex was peeling out of the barnyard—not _quite_ as fast as he’d driven in, but almost.

For a minute no one said anything. Then Lucy hurried up the porch stairs. “Well, I gotta go to bed,” she announced quickly.

“Now wait just a minute, young lady,” Jonathan said, following her into the house. “There is still the little matter of you—and my son, get back here—taking off for Metropolis in the middle of the night. Care to explain _that_ to my satisfaction?”

“I’ve got this one,” Clark assured his cousin. “So, there’s this car company, Essex Automotives, and one of their new models has a design flaw…”

 

********

“So.”

“So.”

“It’s new.”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“It wasn’t here last week.”

“Just had it delivered.”

“So, new then.”

“Yep.”

Lex took a sip of his Scotch, one hand in the pockets of his expensive black trousers. Lucy was wearing her yellow dress that he liked so much, although it clashed a bit with the gold necklace she was fingering absently. They were both staring above the fireplace in the lounge, where once an impressive but fairly medieval collection of battle axes had been arranged. Now the space was occupied by a six-foot-high framed canvas.

“So,” Lucy repeated dubiously. “It’s modern, I guess. Right?”

Lex nodded. “Modern, abstract.”

“Um… does it _mean_ something?” Lucy didn’t want to put down Lex’s taste in art… although she hadn’t exactly seen a lot of modern pieces around the mansion. Usually that was the kind of thing he made fun of.

“Of course,” he assured her. “The red represents the violent, passionate nature of humanity. Lust, greed, anger. That kind of thing.”

“Oh.”

“The blue represents the cool, logical intellect. Reason, restraint.”

“So the purple would be…”

“The purple represents the complex mixture of reason and passion inherent in all humanity,” Lex replied. Lucy snuck a glance at him to see if it was okay to giggle, but he seemed completely serious. “The green represents the natural world, which is at once intertwined with and at the mercy of the dueling motivations of humankind.”

She couldn’t stand it anymore. “What does the big hole represent?”

Lex took another casual drink. “It represents the spot where Veronica’s a-s broke through the canvas after you punched her.”

For a moment Lucy was quiet. Then she started snickering. Then she accelerated to giggling. It didn’t take too long before she was grabbing Lex’s arm to keep herself upright as she bent over double laughing. He set his Scotch down to avoid spilling it and decided it would be alright to add a few chuckles to her own, though his amusement was more because of her than the painting.

“How much did you pay for it?” she gasped out, wiping tears away from her eyes.

Lex gazed up at the giant splotchy canvas with a large hole in the center. “About seventy-five grand,” he told her. That set her off again; she was bending over the couch squealing with glee. “The price went up after, you know, the infamous incident.”

Lucy tumbled over the side of the couch, kicking at the overstuffed arm with her shoes as she chortled. It occurred to Lex that he’d never actually seen someone chortle before. So that’s what it looked like. He rounded the couch and dropped down beside her head. “You think it looks okay in here?”

Lucy could hardly breathe. Lex remembered laughing fits as a child that quickly turned to panic when his asthma kicked in—but she seemed to catch her breath finally and crawled into his lap. “I think it looks just fine,” she assured him. Lex also realized he’d never kissed someone _while_ they were laughing, and kept laughing, and it really wasn’t too bad.

“Well we’ll keep it here then,” he decided.

 

*******

 

“I just don’t get it.”

“Well, it’s modern art.”

“Who’s it by?”

“Um, someone... modern.”

“An artist, perhaps?”

“I think his name was something kind of French.”

“Henry Ducot. What? I had to call the guy. He got a painting in the Oval Office, after all.”

“It looks like preschool fingerpainting to me.”

“ _All_ modern art looks like fingerpainting to you, Toby. That’s because you don’t have an appreciation for the style.”

“You’re right. I like my paintings to _look_ like something.”

“It’s interpretive. Abstract.”

“He said that the red represents the violent, passionate nature of humanity. Lust, greed, anger.”

“Who said that?”

“Fruit or landscapes or ships or ducks or something.”

“The artist said that. Ducot.”

“Ducks? You like paintings of ducks?”

“It was just an example.”

“What’s the blue?”

“I’m sure there must be many fine artists who specialized in painting... ducks.”

“Thank you for the support, Sam, it’s entirely unnecessary.”

“I’m just saying, waterfowl probably makes up a sizable subgenre of natural subjects—“

“The blue represents the cool, logical intellect. Reason, restraint.”

“Wait. What?”

“I’m interpreting the painting for you guys, and you’re talking about ducks.”

“What was the red again?”

“Lust, greed, anger, violence, passion.”

“Okay, geez, calm down, C.J..”

“What’s the blue?”

“Reason and restraint, which I am rapidly losing.”

“It’s mostly purple, though.”

“Well, the purple represents the complex mixture of reason and passion inherent in all humanity.”

“I hope you’re quoting from the artist.”

“I am.”

“What’s the green?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m just curious. I’ll be staring at this painting a lot in the next four years. At least, I hope I’ll be allowed in the Oval Office a lot in the next four years.”

“The green represents the natural world, which is at once intertwined with and at the mercy of the dueling motivations of humankind.”

“What were the dueling motivations of humankind?”

“Reason and passion, you idiot!”

 “Why does it have a hole in it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you ask the artist?”

“Of _course_ I asked the artist. But he just started ranting at me in French and hung up.”

“He hung up.”

“Yes.”

“On the White House Press Secretary.”

“Yes.”

“Someone has a little more red than blue in their purple.”

“It came here with the hole, though.”

“I heard the movers almost had a heart attack when they took it out of the crate, they thought it had been damaged during shipping.”

“It just looks so weird above the fireplace, though. I mean, everything else is classical stuff, Napoleon and Alexander the Great and, you know, people with faces and stuff.”

“Josh knows his art.”

“I know it’s not the same style as everything _else_ around here.”

“Well, it came from his personal collection, so... maybe it means something to him.”

“You like the painting?”

Jump. “Um, yes, sir, sorry, sir, didn’t see you come in, sir.”

“Sir, I got a couple questions today about your choice of artwork for the White House... I was just wondering if you had any comments to make about them?”

“I thought the... whatever office sent you a list of the paintings and some information on them.”

“Yes, sir. It’s just that the press likes to have some kind of personal story to go with a painting or two, so they can write it up as a political-slash-human-interest piece.”

“Political-slash-human-interest.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, you must have had a _reason_ why you chose these particular paintings to decorate the White House...”

“I should have thought the pattern would be obvious.”

“Um... yes, sir, there _is_ a certain similar theme running through them, but I don’t really think it would be wise to point out to the press that you decorated the White House with scenes from the lives of power-hungry tyrants bent on world domination.”

“Why not?” Pause. “I’m kidding.” Pause. “Really, I’m kidding.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sigh. “Well, the painting of Napoleon’s coronation by David has always been one of my favorites... It was a favorite of my mother’s, actually. She gave me a watch with a Napoleon franc in it, to remind me of this painting... Napoleon had his mother painted into the picture, even though she couldn’t be at the actual coronation, to witness his moment of greatness... She was dying when she gave me the watch.”

“Oh.”

“I’m told that’s a heart-warming sort of story. Good for the human interest angle.”

“It’s a very good story, sir.”

“I’ll leave it up to you whether you add the part about the watch being temporarily stolen by my housekeeper’s teenage daughter, who had a shrine to me in her bedroom. And the part where her naked, invisible brother attacked me after I made the family leave Smallville.”

“I’ll probably leave that part out, sir, if that’s alright with you.”

“Uh, sir? We were wondering about this painting here.”

“ _Nature at the Mercy of Humanity_ , by Henry Ducot?”

“I spoke to Monsieur Ducot on the phone, sir, but he didn’t explain the hole in the middle.”

“Oh, yes, _that_ , well... That’s a good story, too. The First Lady punched another woman and she fell right through the canvas.”

Silence. “Sir?”

“Lucy and I had been seeing each other for about a year, and this other woman entered the picture, for various reasons, most of which were related to my being an idiot. I was with this other woman at an art show when Lucy came along and expressed her displeasure at the woman’s presence by punching her in the face. And she tripped and fell backwards through that canvas.” Pause. “I bought it to commemorate the event. The price went up 30% after the fight was covered by the Metropolis tabloids.”

Pause. “Maybe we should stick with the Napoleon story.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“The Napoleon story is a great one.”

“Very heart-warming.”

“Well, I’ll rely on my staff’s expertise in this instance. Was there anything else?”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Thank you, sir.”


End file.
